Grover's Prolouge
by PinkLemonade519
Summary: Lord of the wild, upstart to the council, failed keeper, and ... what came before? Grover Underwood is the most famous satyr on the planet now, but you can't help but wonder how he came to be.
1. Roaming the Wildwood

_A/N: __Any advise on my writing? Always greatly appreciated :)_

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, it's plot, it's characters, or it's merchandising rights. This is a non-profitable fan-based work. Please support the official release.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Let me tell you a story.

At night, the forest speaks. The leaves whisper, cool breeze whistling through outstretched branches; the creatures stir, hunting prey and wading through grassy pastures to find nesting; and sweet nothings sound as mothers lull their offspring with comforting growls. Although this mystic place is one which many know as home, it's no retreat, no sanctuary. Danger lurks in wildwood of Camp Half Blood.

All but one of the younglings rest. This youth is clearly of satyr kin, curled tuffs sprouting out from the waist down, stubby hoofs capping it's legs, and it's torso could be mistaken for that of a human toddler's.

Although a youngling such as this could ultimately be the scourge of this wooded kingdom, this particular juvenile would never dream of mischief making. It stumbles nervously throughout even it's own nest, and never makes purpose stir.

Stir is always made for it.

On this night, however, it's hooves flatten grass as the small _thuds_ can be heard from the satyr's rush. It travels fleet-footed, racing on visions of heroism and bravery. Imagination quells it's cowardice, and so, it can leap forth with little hesitation. It's an improvement for this particular satyr.

Forgetting itself, the youth dashes further from the safety of familiarity - delight filling it's eyes as it stumbles into unsung territories.

The trees hang overhead in strange and foreign fashions. That would usually send the satyr into cries and hysterics, but on _this_ night, it doesn't even phase it. On _this_ night, it, for the first time, is being reckless and impulsive.

On any other occasion, the satyr would stay far from this neck of the woods. Anyone would. Those who know it, know it to be the breeding ground for monstrous creatures - entities that shouldn't exist in either tale or reality. They prowl the grounds and dominate the skies. They stalk, they hunt, they kill.

But elated by his games and false-reality, the satyr doesn't detect the lingering scent of stale meat - the scent of hellhound breath. He doesn't notice the hulking shadow stalking it's prey. He doesn't recognize the grave feeling of impeding doom.

Stumbling onward, the satyr chortles with delight, picking up both speed with stubby legs and the image of dodging hazards which have befallen many heroes. He performs flying kicks and whizzing knock-outs with his meaty fists, battling invisible foes in far off lands, but all the while, a far greater threat lurks just behind the brush.

He then condemns his imaginary demons to oblivion with one final blow, and lets out a celebratory bleat. Another noise sounds, however. A low, nearly inaudible gurgle slices though the calm and drills through his ear canals.

Fear like liquid nitrogen benumbs his thought and runs ramped though his veins, piercing his now frosted heart with icy dread. He becomes solid, every muscle clenched tightly to the extent of probably never moving again. Tremendous horror reaches the young satyr as he envisions gruesome beasts, gnarled claws raking the ground, razor teeth being ran over with a tongue in anticipation of the satyr meat that would no doubt get stuck.

Needless to say, the young satyr had never been as terrified.

Even with his heart pounding through his ears, the satyr can make out distinct _thuds_ as the beast approaches it's petrified prey. It's low growl grows impatient with a thirst for satyr blood, and it barks hungrily - an inhuman sound which cuts through the night with such force, vibrating even through the satyr's clenched muscles as he manages a horrified whimper.

The beast now snarls, it's breath now blowing through the satyr's curls. His slitted-eyes are held firmly close in fear. He knows what's to come next, and is positively terrified.

What's to come, however, doesn't come. Anticipation results in the satyr's scrunched shoulders, but nothing more. Confused, the satyr's eyes unfurl slowly, cautious as to what they would reveal.

Great relief strikes through the satyr as he watches the scene play out before him. Another being of satyr kin, one far older, has appeared through the brush. This older, larger satyr stands erect, his broad shoulders straightened to intimidate. His curls are notably darker than the young satyr's, his stomach alone is three times the size of the young satyr himself, and his horns far broader, but it's quite clear from their facial features that they are father and son.

*"Εξαφανίσου," the father's voice is booming, and it echoes for miles on in every direction. "Δεν θα δειπνήσετε απόψε μετά το γιο μου, κτήνος." *

The young satyr couldn't tell if the hound understood his father's words, but it certainly understands the gleaming spear-head pointing towards it's heart.

The hound snarls, but doesn't put up much fuss before it scampers off. The young satyr would make a skimpy meal, anyway, hardly a morsel of meat on it's bones.

The father's eyes, dark as dark-ash wood, watches the brush the hound disappeared into for a beat longer than intended, then turns to the young satyr, a worrisome yet angry glint shining inside them. "Grover, you're not supposed to be here, I thought I made that clear."

The young satyr's voice squeaks, "I was playing. I-I didn't mean to ... to ..." Tears track down his cheeks.

The father trots forward and kneels one knee next to his son. His face is contorted in frustration and he's about to take it out on the boy, but thinks better of it, grunting dejectedly. Instead, he gives the boy a stern look, "You'll never come here again, Grover. Not once. I can't ... I can't stress this _enough_ to you; you don't leave the clearing," he grabs the boy's shoulders pleadingly, stressing every word, "_You-don't-leave-the-clearing."_

The young satyr sobs an apology, and the father realizes he's raised his voice and his grip has tightened drastically. He quickly releases his hold, and envelops his son in a warm embrace, "No, I, I'm sorry, Grover, don't cry," he stands, still holding his son close. "No tears, Brave Boy."

Sniffling, the young satyr bleats, "I'm sorry, Daddy."

"Just don't come here again, Grover." his tone soothing and scolding all at once. "I couldn't bear to loose you, too."

*"Begone," the father's voice is booming, and it echoes for miles on in every direction. "You will not dine upon my son tonight, Beast." I decided if the hound had any chance of understanding, Grover's dad would have to speak in Greek because it's a Greek monster.*


	2. Hearing the Truth

_A/N: Thanks for reviewing and favouriting HappyAce88. Meant a whole lot. Really, thanks. So, um, this chapter's for you :)_

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Grover soon finds it's hard to tip-toe with hooves. Stealth isn't his forte, that much has _always_ been clear, but tonight he feels more clumsy and ungraceful than ever. Especially when he's not supposed to be making any noise at all.

Every leaf crunches louder, every bush rustles longer- he might as well be carrying a blow horn - and the worst of it is how his poor little heart stops for every decibel. It's not fair that his daddy-goat is so good at camouflage while he's so bumbling.

He shouldn't be here, he should be back in the clearing, back in his warm, safe leaf-pile bed. Everyone thinks he's a slumber, lost in his Technicolor dream-world where such fright could never be experienced. Oh, how he wishes.

Instead, he's sneaking through a small patch of Juniper - hoping beyond hoping that the spirit residing there won't wake - trying to find a suitable hiding spot. He can't be seen for this excursion, he'd be in so much trouble, but ... for the first time ever he can't resist breaking the rules.

Since he could follow them, the rules have been set in stone by his daddy-goat. Don't leave the clearing without an escort, don't talk to campers, and don't touch mommy's picture; just three little rules. His daddy-goat would be fuming when he found out Grover was even considering building the courage to actually think of thinking of it. Let alone actually _doing_ anything.

Grover shivers at the thought of what happened last time he broke the rules. His daddy-goat loves him very much, he knows that, but when the rules are called into question, his daddy-goat gets ... scary.

Well, scary or not, he had to come. His daddy-goat has been acting so shady as he left, and the way he'd spoken with the elder that had called him to this meeting … it was all so strange.

He can now make out varied fragments of what the elders are saying. He dares to crawl closer ever so slightly, his heart pounding straight through his chest painfully, his eyes turning to terrified slits, and his mind screaming warnings that he does _not_ belong here, that he _needs_ to turn back or be killed. He risks a gulp.

Grover can now hear the gist of what the elders preach to the large crowd gathered before them, "... Needs to be addressed. The boy has always been a _burden _on his father, but now it's becoming a problem of the whole forest. I, for one, think exile is the only solution to a matter as threatening and pressing as this."

The crowd gasps collectively, and Grover decides he doesn't like that big meanie yelling bad things at the crowd. Not one bit.

Suddenly, Grover sees a face he knows emerge from the assembly; his daddy-goat. Grover smiles, the tension lifting from both his mind, and evidently, the crowd. Grover's daddy-goat makes everything better; everyone seems to calm down when he speaks. He's a real leader, not like that mean, old Mr. Leneus.

Leneus and his other meanie friends look surprised, "Oakley, you dare question our ruling?"

"Your ruling is unjust, lord Leneus. You know I would never question the word of Pan's council, but I must protest. Your ruling, while in context of the Great Order, also violates the very same clause." Grover can't help but notice how much power and presence his father exudes. His hesitant smile grows; that's his daddy goat.

Maron grunts disdainfully, "How so?"

"Your duty is to protect and guide the future searchers of this forest. You would be defying the clause scribed four thousand years ago by philosopher J-"

"We bear no need for history lessons, Oakley. What _point_ have you?" Maron snaps impatiently. Grover decides he doesn't like Mr. Maron, either.

Grover's daddy-goat shifts his weight, as if deciding to go on, "Surely you know, lord Maron." He turns toward the crowd expectantly, "Surely you _all_ know. 'A satyr must prove his worth, yet must be given chance to do so.' My son has done nothing wrong, and you're all writing him off as some sort of _plague_!"

"You are a vain, bitter fool, Oakley," Silenus tells him, a dark shadow overtaking his features. "but even you can not deny the day he was born was a dark day for us all. Her loss-"

"Don't speak of her in my presence!" Grover's face falls as he hears the hitch in his daddy-goat's voice, and oddly, the tension has returned for one breathless moment that seems longer than it 's daddy-goat seems to realize this, so he runs a shaking hand through his black curls, "I apologise, but ... I stand by my earlier rebut. Grover had nothing to do with ..." he blinks hard, but goes on in a pained voice, "he can't help who hates us."

"We're all greatly saddened by your loss, Mr. Underwood, and it is that very reason why we must act before your son causes more harm. That foul _human _will be back, and your son will be the reason. Who knows what atrocities will commence, how many will fall due to your ignorance? Who can really say?" Silenus explains this so rationally that even Grover almost believes him, but the underlying anger in his voice made him realize Silenus isn't as rational as he would like to portray.

"You will not exile my son." Grover's daddy-goat crossed his arms, and you could almost believe he was stone. "He is no threat to you. He's made no wrong, and he just wants what we all do; a chance."

Maron sighs wearily, "I suppose we can not exile the boy without a full consensus, but I honestly do not see what loss it would make to you. The boy could never make it as a searcher, anyway. He's not searcher material."

With the banging of a gavel Grover's face falls. He ... he can't be a searcher?


	3. Playing the Pipes

I can only speculate what he felt, but my best guess is all we can go on, really.

It's not as if Oakley hadn't known this would happen. Of course those grumpy, old goats stuck in their backwater ways would find Grover guilty of a crime he'd never commit. The day he was born was a dark day, sure. He couldn't deny that. But it wasn't Grover's fault he was targeted ... and therefore endangered the whole forest. Either way, it doesn't matter, Oakley would protect Grover at any cost.

You know, he'd never say it aloud, but he's really starting to question the council's decisions. If they continue like this he's sure their jealousies and pride will bring upheaval and disaster upon the satyrs. Their prejudice is their greatest shortcoming, he decides. But when their responsible for deciding his son's fate, he can't _let_ them fall short.

Shaking his head clear, Oakley sighs, exhausted. Today had been trying, to say the absolute least. All he wants to do now is collapse by the river, but as Oakley steps closer towards his clearing, a distinct sniffling can be heard. He almost groans, knowing full well who those hitches in breath are coming from. _Of course _Grover was crying, wasn't he always?

Stepping further into the clearing, he corrects himself, knowing that that just isn't fair to the boy who lost his mother ... and is stuck with him as a father. He was never meant to be a dad; he _loves_ Grover, but he's unfit to be a father, and his place is certainly not here.

Oakley speaks in his most comforting voice - though it's clearly hitched with slight annoyance, "Grover, what happened now? I told you, I was just around the corner, I-" Oakley realizes Grover isn't in his leafy bed. "... Grover? Where …"

An echo of grief registers because Oakley knows where he is. His stride is stiff and hurried as he follows the river south, beyond the thick blockade of foliage encasing their clearing - the clearing Grover's supposed to be _in_ right now.

Grover knows the basics, but that's it - he _couldn't_ know anything more. He shouldn't, he's only _five_ for Pan's sake. But he knows enough to know where his mother's tree used to be.

Oakley's heart wrenches in seeing his son huddled next to her shrine. Grover is cradling his furry legs, his face is flush, his eyes are blood-shot, and he's staring into his mother's picture at the angelic beauty of her face.

"Grover," Grover jumps and turns, frightened. "Why're you here when I told you you're not supposed to be?"

Grover and Oakley are both surprised to hear the waver in Oakley's voice. Grover licks his lips then bites them, turning away. His voice convulses with apologetic hurt, "I ... I'm sorry I hurt mommy." New fat, hot tears streak down.

A slight gasp escapes Oakley before he crumbles down, bringing Grover into a tight embrace. "You didn't do anything, Grover. It wasn't your fault." The young satyr bawls into Oakley's chest and only pride and fatherly instincts can keep Oakley from bawling himself. Oakley realizes Grover is sobbing something into his chest, "Shh, Grover, it's okay. Tell me again."

Grover's head turns up at his father, "I heard th-," he hiccups loudly, "- the elders s-sa-ay-ay ..."

Oakley immediately gives up on trying to scold him for disobeying the rules. He only holds Grover tighter, stroking his hand through Grover's brown curls. "Forget them, Grover, they're just ... scared."

"I'm scared, too." Grover sniffles into Oakley's chest.

"Well ... you don't have to be," his expression is hard as Oakley thinks. "Wait here, Grover, I'll be right back. I've got something for you."

Grover misses Oakley's warm arms embracing him, but waits as patiently as he can. He's on edge until he can hear the familiar sound of his father's goat hoofs stamping down grass, and finally relief sets in when he's come into full sight, his hand held behind his back.

Oakley kneels down beside his son and crosses his black fuzzy legs. "Grover, do you know how all those big brave satyrs looking for Pan defend themselves?" Grover shakes his head, as Oakley pulls something from behind him. "Reed-pipes. The best weapon a searcher can wield."

Grover lightens, still in awe of the carved reeds in his hands, "A searcher?"

Oakley smiles fondly, "Yeah. Only the best satyrs can fully master all their tunes- it takes hours of practise, patience, and dedication. These pipes aren't only for festivals and parties, their songs can move mountains, _literally_. I carved them for you because I know someday your adventures will take you beyond everything you ever dreamed you'd be. And, hey, don't listen when people say you can't or your not; they judge you because they don't know you yet. You learn these pipes, you follow your path to Pan, they'll figure out who you are."

The pipes looked to be the most glorious, eminent thing Grover had ever laid eyes on, and it shone in his delighted face. His marvel and adoration made his daddy-goat snort. He looked up at his father with such reverence dancing in his soil-coloured eyes, "Is it really mine?"

Oakley laughed, "Yes, _yes_, I carved them for _you. _I'm pretty sure I said that."

"Oh, I know, I just … wow."

Chuckling affectionately, Oakley puts an arm on his son's shoulder, "Well, just remember what I said, I'm taking all bets it'll ring true someday. You're a very special boy, Grover."

Grover cocks his head, confused, "How special is very?"

"As special as the shining moon, Brave Boy," Oakley once again scoops Grover up in his arms, giving a breathy snicker. "Let's head home, huh?"


	4. Feeling the Presence

Now Grover's daddy-goat looks sick. Like, really sick. He's as pallid as a cloud, and as shaky as branch in the breeze. His ragged, gusty sighs are starting to scare Grover. Grover's noticed these odd changes over the last few weeks and he can't help but be worried. He's had sniffles before, but he's never seen anyone _this_ sick. His daddy breaks out in sweats and has to run out of the clearing, leaving Grover to only wonder.

Frankly, Grover's terrified. He's admittedly scared of a lot of things, and I mean a_ lot_ of things, but this … I mean, what if something happens to his daddy-goat? Who'll kiss him goodnight and make sure the monsters don't eat him? Who'll make his favourite tin-can nachos just the way he likes them? Most importantly, who'll love him and be his daddy-goat?

The thought that his dad could ever actually be gone made Grover want to curl up into a ball and bawl until his eyes were just glass marbles lolling in his eye sockets. The horrible thing is, that gruesome thought doesn't scare him, that thought would be his alternative. He just can't think of a time his dad wasn't there; it would just be so unnatural. And Grover hates unnatural things.

This collective worry had been accumulating in the back of his mind for so long, you can't blame him for not touching his silver ware at dinner. But his dad can.

Grover's dad frowns, noticing, and dejectedly takes the half-chewed fork from of his mouth. "Okay. I get it. Three nights in a row, right?" he sighs another one of those horrible, ragged sighs, "I'm sorry, Grover. I'll raid the recycling tomorrow. Hey, who knows? Maybe there'll be those Crush cans you love so much."

"It- … it's not that, dad." Grover murmurs, avoiding his father's gaze.

Grover's dad just blinks, positively mystified, "What else _could_ it be?"

It's now or never, and never seems so terrifying because, well, what if something ... happens? Grover gulps nervously, but then clears his throat, wanting to sound confident and confronting. He even manages to look up as he says, "Daddy- erm, no, ugh, _dad_." Grover straightens, "Dad, lately I've happened to notice, um, irregularities in your behavioural patterns, so like, I mean … why?"

He just stares at Grover now. "_What_?"

Grover bleats and looks away, "I just meant, well, you know … oh, just never mind. Forget I said anything."

Grover's dad is still staring, but now even more expectantly, which is making Grover whimper nervously. His daddy-goat just runs a hand through his dark curls, "No, what was that - noticing irregularities in my something or- … _what_?"

"Nothing! Just nothing, okay? I didn't, I _… _um_, the cans_. That's what's wrong, I want more cans, _that's all_." Grover becomes even more nervous with panic riding up his throat, and so he just starts babbling, "I'm just so scared I'm not getting enough. I mean, weren't you the one who said a growing goat needs to get fibre and minerals, and _dad_, I'm a big boy-goat-thing now, an-and puberty is _just _around the corner, I can feel it- why just this mourning I found three new hairs on my right leg!"

"So … so you … you want more tin cans for the extra three hairs on your leg?"

Grover seems to realize how stupid that sounds, "Well, I ..."

Grover's father only just stares at him for the longest moment, then frowns. A stern look falls over his face as he says, "Grover, no more of your games. I know this can't be about puberty, or tin cans- or _whatever_. Tell me what's really bothering you."

Slowly, his gaze rises to lock with his father's, "You're sick, Dad. All this is just my way of saying I-I'm worried about you."

"… Sick … I guess you could say that," he muses quietly. It's Oakley's turn to look away. He studies something far off, something distant, and evidently, something alluring. A slight gasp escapes as he seals his eye lids shut, "Grover, do you still have your reeds?"

"Yeah, of course," he answers, taken back by the disturbed tremor in his father's voice.

"And … I love you, Brave Boy. You have to remember that. Promise me."

"Dad, what's going on-"

"Promise me, Grover." His tone is condemning and so threatening. But also despairing and bitter, like he knows something is coming. Like he can feel it.

Grover tries to gauge what his daddy-goat is thinking, but he knows his dad has always been an expert at camouflage.

"_Grover_."

"I-I promise, I do. I know."

His look is contorted in such pain and hurt as he opens his eyes to study Grover for a long, breathless moment. He then rasps a painful sigh, and puts his head hand. He is shielding his eyes.

Silence becomes and omnipresent force acting on the clearing. It's dreadful, because in these moments Grover's dad isn't crying, but somehow, the emotion bleeds through into the atmosphere. Grover can sense his father's torment and wretchedness, even though he hasn't said a word, or even moved. Grover's lower lip trembles. He wants a hug.

Grover's daddy-goat begins to mumble. "I used to think I could do this … I can't anymore; I can't."

Grover's eyes burn slightly with fresh tears, "Dad?"

"… I can't anymore. I'm so _incredibly_ sorry, son, I love you. Oh merciful Pan, I love you so much, Grover. You know I was so excited to meet you, to watch you, and love you. But he's calling, Grover. He … he's been calling my whole life, but then your mother came, and the next thing we know … you. I couldn't leave you then, and I couldn't leave her. You two were everything- my whole world."

"Dad … who is 'he'? Who's been calling- who's making you sick?" Grover yelps desperately.

Maybe he hasn't heard; "I wish I could help you, Grover. You'll need help someday. But I just …"

"Daddy," Grover weeps. "you're scaring me."

Oakley brings his head from his hand, and as his eyes peek out from behind it, Grover's startled to see their red and tear-brimmed. Agony and complete misery are depicted as clear as day on Oakley's face. He doesn't want to do this- but at the same time does so, so badly.

Now, his resolve hardens as Oakley's face falls into a unreadable grimace. "Time for bed, Brave Boy."


	5. Dueling the Demons

"Time for bed, Brave Boy."

Grover muses this again, giving a conclusive edge to it. Now, he looks to Juniper, who's listened so eagerly all this time. Tangled in her, he sighs wearily, "You know, those ... were the last words he said to me."

Eyes wide and frightened, Juniper gasps, "He ... passed on? Right then, because he was sick?"

Grover shakes his head, "No, _then,_ he put me to bed, and I saw him go to sleep on the opposate part of the clearing, too, but ... he just wasn't there when I woke up. Pan called him- it was killing him not to answer. I don't blame him ... I know how strong it can be, how awful it is to feel _restless_," to Grover in that moment, restless was the most dispicable word in any language. Then he sighed again, "wild Hellhounds wouldn't keep him away."

Juniper let's this sink in for a moment, then holds Grover tighter, "I'm so sorry, Grover, that's awful."

"Well ... like I said, I don't blame him. I can't blame myself, either, it took me years to realize that."

"Why? How could it possibly be your fault?"

Grover is silent as his sad gaze drifts off into space, "... At first, I had no idea where he went so I thought he left to protect me."

"From what?"

"From ... everything, I don't know. I was a scared little boy all alone. I guess knowing- or at least pretending to know- that he was out there sheilding me from monsters still was an empty comfort, but as empty as it was, it was still _something_. Him just being gone ... that's terrifying." Grover bleats his words anxiously.

Juniper's now on the verge of tears, "Oh, Grover, my poor, sweet Grover ..."

"I'm okay now, Juniper, really, with you and all my friends here at camp ... oh Gods, I never explained that, did I?"

"What?"

"Why dad didn't like half-bloods." Grover sighes apologetically, "I never was much of a story-teller, anyway. Look, what you need to know is simple. It started a long time ago, probably when my dad was around my age. He was going for his searcer's ... licence ..." Grover's stopped his tale uburbtly. His fine-tuned hearing has caught something.

Juniper's eye brows knit, "What is it?" Grover starts to his feet, hunched over in a cautious stance, and Juniper's poor little heart is whamming her in her chest like a gong. "Grover, what is it, what's going on?"

"Something bad." Suddenly, a dismayed satyr rushes through the under-brush, limping off to the left with his right hoof managled like Silly Putty. Grover's heart wrenches at the sight, "Something real bad."

"Mr. Underwood, sir, please," the younger satyr bleats. "you- you've gotta help, please, you've gotta- please, _please_-"

"Hold on, what exactly have I gotta help with?" Grover tries so hard to keep the nervousness feels out of his voice. He's a leader now, he's got to be strong, and fearless, especailly in the eyes of the wounded or dismayed.

The young satyr seems to be choking on his words and his tears, "The beast- Mr. Underwood, like no hound ever concieved- it- Oh, Gods,_ please_- Hades himself would cast it to Tartarus- I-"

"Where?"

"Five miles west of Zeus' Fist," the satyr sobs in reply. "That way."

Grover's frightened and simulataineously determined resolve sets, "Stay here, you've done well. Juniper," he turns to her, "stay out of the way, whatever the cost, I'll lead it away from here-"

"Wait, Grover, you can't just-"

"Stay here," he takes her face in his hands, "I couldn't bear to loose you, too."

Her frightened eyes stare up at him lovingly, for a long, cherished moment. "Just ... be careful, okay?"

"Don't worry, Juniper," he kisses her quickly, but tenderly, before starting off through the bushes. Over his shoulder he calls playfully, "Besides, worrying's my thing!"

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Danger still lurks in the wildwood of Camp Halfblood.

Grover's never been so fleet-footed: he ducks under out-stretched branches, he dodges small creatures, and gallops almost heroically through the forrest- _his_ forrest. He's never been too good on his feet, and he's never been much more than nervous or embarresed, but now that doesn't matter. Now, he's the lord of the wild, now, he's the hero everyone claims he can be, now, he's Brave Boy.

His first sight off the beast both angers and terrifys him. It's a full-grown Hell-hound, a vicious one at that. Normally, Hell-hounds don't live long enough to be full-grown; they're hunted down before they have the chance. Unfortunetly, this one must've slipped under the radar.

It tears through the line of Half-bloods and satyrs like they're rag dolls. The thing is obviously in it's prime, gnarled claws raking the ground, razor teeth ready for a good meal- it sees him, and he sees it.

To Grover, it's the beast from all those years ago. It's every battle his dad fought for him, from beast to bullies like he council-men used to be. It's everything he hid from as a kid and everything he hids from now. It's going down.

The beast charges. The surronding satyrs and halfbloods give futile efforts of arrows, swords, and javelins but nothing stops it's rampage.

Grover's still, his eyes close, and his mouth is now to his reed-pipes. It took years of practise, paitence, and dedication, and they say only the best can reallyt master it's most poignant tunes, but Grover now plays the Requiem of Pan with ease.

The tune echoes through the forrest, shattering the panic and delirum with a calming, natural effect. Without knowing what they're doing, the satyrs and half-bloods trying to help slowly yeild and lower the weapons.

But the beast charges on.

Grover breaks into a chorus so powerful, it awakens dormant forces from deep beneath the earth he stands on. It's been so long since the lord of the wild called upon them.

The earth itself rises, taking hold of the hound and pulling it down. Soon, the earth begins ingesting the beast, and what's still visible is transforming, morphing into soil and rock. Grover plays until the hound's cries are but echos, and it's form but a memory. The hound is gone now, a slight hill in it's place.

A mighty, victorious roar arises from the on-looking satyrs and half-bloods, and Grover's bearly able to hear himself as he smiles and tells the hill, "Be at peace. You are one with the earth, now."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Grover doesn't celebrate. Sure, he's happy, the beast is gone, but he's got a lot on his mind. So, instaed of partying with the rest of the forrest, he's alone. By his mother's stump.

Her picture has long since been lost, and Grover's long since forgotten what it actually looks like. Thankfully, though, the stump still stands.

Grover tells it what he just did. "You're proud, right?" He lets the question hang in the air.

Grover stands there for a long time, thinking, mourning. He's caught up in his memories, but not so caught up that he can't hear Juniper come up behind him. She stands back for a moment, realizing what the stump really is. Then she holds him, "Oh, Grover ..."

After a few silent moments, he tells her, "I never finished my story."

"Oh, no, Grover, it's okay, another time-"

"So, I left off, Dad's trying to get his licence. He got assigned to a Nemisis kid, Ace Malcroy. Ace had a sister- also a halfblood, so she tagged along, too." Juniper watches his sullen expression intently. "Well ... it turns out, like father like son: he had a few bumps along the way, too. Big bumps. Ace ended up on Half-blood Hill with no sister. He blamed my dad. He swore he'd get revenge, make things even.

"Years later, the day I was being born, Ace made truth of his words. I guess he intended to kill me, too, but I was born a little ahead of schedule that day." Grover swallows, and closes his eyes before tears can spill out. "His plan was pretty simple: when everyone's fussing about the birth, he'd ... make a stump of her tree," Grover's words are so painful he sobs them, "It's ... it's why my dad _hated_ half-bloods so much ... it's why he so careful with me, why he taught me to be in fear. He was tr-trying to protect me ..."

Juniper holds him wordlessly. Giving him enough strength to go on: "You know what? I _am_ in fear, too. Sometimes I think he's coming back- and not just for me this time." He looks into her eyes with desperation in his, "I really meant it, I couldn't bear to loose you, too."

The two share a tender kiss under a moon-lit sky. So in love, so in need of each other. You know, Grover bets his Dad would be proud of him for finding a girl like her. She's so incredible to him.

They stand together long after the kiss they've shared ends. Grover's thought mingle aimleesly in his head, and finally, he manages to sniffle, "I think I'm the only one who remembers him. My dad, I mean. He was just causuality to the search and an unlucky guy when it came to Ace, but ... Juniper, he was so much more than that. He ... he was my daddy-goat, and Hades if he wasn't a good leader."

"Like father, like son." Juniper smiles up at him weakly.

He smiles back, "Yeah, like father, like son."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

_A/N: I am SO sorry if it sucked- and I know a lot of this story did. If you're sill reading this, thanks for sticking through to the lame end, and I'm sorry if I wasted your time at all. Oh, and I tried to be conclusive with this chapter, but I'm sorry if I missed something or fuddled up a detail. Also, this chapter is unedited, because I set a certain time for it to be done, and it's coming down to the minute, but I can tell you, I at least accomplished that. And I'm so happy I finished it. _

_So, if you're still reading this, please review and tell me what you think or how I can improve :)_


End file.
